


Frustration

by AmanitaVirosa



Category: Forgotten Realms
Genre: #bobsaysshipem, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmanitaVirosa/pseuds/AmanitaVirosa
Summary: A short musing of Artemis' POV around sexual frustration during an average day in town with Jarlaxle.  Set ambiguously during the Sellswords Trilogy, or some other point at which the two were travelling together. May be a one-shot, may not. Currently just an idea I had that wanted out onto paper. NOW NO LONGER A ONE-SHOT.





	1. Chapter 1

He refused. He would not admit it. He didn’t care how much “better” it would feel, he refused to submit to his own traitorous body’s desires.

  
So he told himself everytime he caught his own gaze straying to that _perfect, tight_ round ass.

  
He growled under his breath at himself. He hated how ineffective his own strategy was.

It was supposed to be a matter of finding a decent brothel with attractive women(he would take no chances with gathering the ire of any fathers like his associate did), paying some coin, getting laid, and his body would obediently follow along with his wishes. Not proceeding through with that whole debacle and it _still refusing to submit_.

  
No, he did not enjoy “getting laid”. His body was apathetic at best with the women and he _refused_ to admit why.

  
His partner walked in front of him, oohing and ahhing at the pretty baubles in the shop windows. Hips swaying back and forth, back and forth, back and-

  
He snarled, receiving an amused smirk from that _blasted-annoying-idiot-gaudy_ drow.

  
He hated Jarlaxle.

  
He could never know how much he _did_ _not_ like his ass. Do not, did not, will not.

  
Never.

  
He liked women-and _only_ women-, and by the nine hells he would find some way to convince his body of that.

  
As he had been attempting for the last 4 decades.

  
Well, 2 and a half. He didn’t start figuring it out until nearly halfway into his second decade. Too busy surviving on the streets before then to take much notice of anything related to sexual interest. Once he got in the guild, things started to become different. He started noticing the sheen of sweat on-

  
Nope. Not going there.

  
The drow bent over to look at some baubles on a merchant’s cart.

  
The whimper _almost_ made it past.

  
His eyes raked over the view in front of him.

  
His fingers twitched. Two steps, that’s all it’d take to have that ass flush against h-

  
_No!_  He almost screamed in frustration.

  
Not frustration, he refused to be frustrated. He was fine, he just needed to find a _woman_ to bed and he’d be-

  
_Tooclosetooclose!_

  
He backpedaled, snarling at the drow for invading his space bubble.

  
The asshole laughed at him.

  
He stalked off, let the damned peacock find his own way around town.

  
He hated the hot-cold prickles than shivered up and down his body from the too-close encounter.

  
Hated the heat and heaviness that was in his groin.

  
Hated the little shocks of friction where his shirt brushed against his nipples that were _not_ hard.

  
He especially hated how his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth and _oh-gods-I-hate-how-aroused-I-am_.

  
His body trembled imperceptibly as he stalked to the inn where they were staying.

  
He audibly growled as he passed the two men in the alleyway freely enjoying themselves.

  
He had nothing against it. He acknowledged it and respected it with others, but for himself? He refused to let the torments he suffered as a child dictate his sexual preference in the twisted way it was attempting to.

  
.

  
.

  
.

  
It never occurred to him that his childhood torments had nothing to do with his honest preference for men, or that in denying himself he was, in fact, allowing himself to be dictated by those torments. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With everyone's lovely feedback, I was able to get an idea of how I wanted to continue this. So make sure to say thank you to yourselves if you're enjoying it. :D

Jarlaxle mourned how skittish his assassin companion was. Frequently, constantly, consistently mourned it. He was used to people being nervous from touch, or not altogether comfortable with him placing a hand on their shoulder, patting them on the back, or if he was in a particularly playful mood throwing his arm around their shoulders. Yet none of those people reacted with the intensity of his current partner. Sure, they might shift, look startled, uncomfortable, maybe even go so far as to throw his hand(or arm) off.

  
With Artemis, however, if he wanted to try( _try_ being the key word here) he had to be prepared to move as quickly as possible to avoid the fist-to-the-face reaction at best, or the knife-to-anywhere-I-can-manage-to-stab-you reaction at worst. It was made worse by the fact the man was just as quick and as agile as himself.

  
The only way he had found to be _allowed_ to touch the man was if he virtually asked permission by keeping his hand in sight and hovering it over his shoulder(he was not permitted to set it down on said shoulder unless he wanted to risk either of the two ridiculously aggressive reactions), or if he actually-honest-to-god _asked_ for permission to touch him.

  
Sometimes he thought it was a miracle the man allowed him to sleep in the same room as him.

  
Admittedly, he often had fun at the other’s expense, getting up-and-into his space without actually touching him. On those occasions the assassin was usually limited to verbal aggression, typically a snarl of varying intensity depending on how foul his mood was.

  
Like the other day. They’d been wandering around the market and when he’d turned to question which bauble(the sapphire was simply stunning but the amethyst was breathtaking) he should purchase, the man had snarled with un-called-for fury. He’d been quite frankly not expecting it(he swore the assassin’s moods were on a swinging pendulum, and an erratic one at that) and had ended up breathing out a laugh more borne from shock than anything humorous. He had admittedly been rather close when he’d turned around, but that was Artemis’ fault for standing so close behind him, not his.

  
It had taken him a solid hour to track down which inn the man had disappeared to after stalking off and discover which room he had booked for them. At least he had still been sane enough to book a room they could both stay in, rather than being vindictive and childish and leaving him to fend for himself(and that had been a throughly unpleasant experience when the man had done that once).

  
Lounging in a chair by the window of their room, the drow sighed with an air of exhaustion. He picked the amethyst brooch up off his vest and spun it idly in his hand. At least he’d gotten the pretty bauble he supposed, he would have to figure out which enchantment he wanted to place on it.

  
Maybe something to help read a certain assassin’s mood swings.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy! Look who managed to drag out another chapter! X.x

Somethings, Artemis was realizing, were simply doomed to be awkward in his life.

Really awkward.

Like how certain, particularly lewd gestures that he grew up with in the native culture of Calimshan...also happened to be the some of the most common of gestures outside of Calimshan.

Gestures that Jarlaxle made frequently.

Sometimes he wondered why the culture he grew up with was so...perverted? It certainly wasn't helping him here, with the way Jarlaxle talked with his hands as he chattered, animatedly expressing himself as they once again strolled through the market.

He sighed subconsciously, redoubling his efforts to ignore the way Jarlaxle's hands repeatedly suggested lewd actions or innuendos- the same ones over and over again, at least he could add some variety- and to focus instead on the actual topic of Jarlaxle's chattering.

Now if he could just get his body to follow his mind’s lead, that would be fantastic. Unfortunately for him, while his mind was rather disinterested in Jarlaxle’s repeated offers to…do lewd things to him, his body was very much interested. Despite this being the 50th offer the peacock had unknowingly made in the last 30 minutes alone. At this point the war between his body’s wants and his own wants was…daily. As far as he was concerned he never had been and never would be interested in taking up Jarlaxle on any of his offers. As far as his body was concerned he was most definitely interested in taking him up on the offers, all of them in fact, and preferably now.

He was incredibly grateful he still wore his cloak. It allowed him to pull it closed around him to hide any…unfortunate problems. It was also easy to play off the excuse of him simply being chilled, or cold, without arising any suspicion. He blew out a frustrated huff then, realizing Jarlaxle had finished his chattering and had turned to admire some fine weapons displayed on a shop’s stand, and he didn’t have any recollection of just what Jarlaxle had even been chattering about. He subtly shrugged then, satisfied that the drow was pre-occupied with shopping and he turned away to scan the market, making note of the vendors, the amount of people packing the street, the bulletin board not that far off crammed full of notices. That he had effectively tuned out Jarlaxle wasn’t an issue until the drow was right behind him, unreasonably close and murmuring quietly in his ear. The shiver that bolted down his spine as the heat in his groin flared to life had his back arching sharply and a strangled curse spilling from him. He was quickly whirling around and raising a hand to land a resounding slap across Jarlaxle’s cheek- or trying to anyways, Jarlaxle just barely leaning out of the way in time.

They stood off like that for a few precious moments, Jarlaxle’s face looking irritated as he gestured _not more gestures, for the love of the gods_ and made a frustrated-sounding huff of his own. Of course, the gestures Jarlaxle made were more of those impossibly lewd innuendos, and he scrambled for moment to not lean forward and drag the drow against him, fighting tooth and nail against his own body’s rather insistent desires.

Determinedly, resolutely, he whirled back around and stalked back towards the inn before he was forced to wage another battle against his own body for control. He didn’t trust himself to speak, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth, and he knew without a doubt that under the cover of his closed cloak there was a prominent bulge tenting his pants. The heated flush that rose to his face and ears as he stalked off wasn’t helping his mood any either, and he choked off a whimper in his throat.

This was getting ridiculous, something was going to have to give sooner or later but he’d be damned if it was him caving to his body’s supposed wants. He just needed to go visit a woman at a brothel, again, even though he’d only been there a mere few days ago. Not that it’d helped, but he refused to admit that he had only barely managed to find release and had been left feeling thoroughly unsatisfied.

With that resolution in mind, he turned and headed towards the establishment, determined to regain control of his body come hell or high water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had this idea of “what if...” and had to make it a chapter. Also had a hilarious thought if- when Artemis and Jarlaxle are travelling with the Companions, Wulfgar tries to be considerate and make an attempt at getting along with Artemis and Artemis just....horrified at getting propositioned by him. Commence explaining then that is NOT what those gestures mean in his culture and that NO, their cultures are not even remotely similar when it comes to...”greetings”. Regis laughing his ass off because he Knows what those gestures meant to Artemis, and encouraging everyone to make similar gestures, just to make his life hell. XD


End file.
